Best Tutored Poems
Where I am probing a tranquil night
I find you there in the depth of skies
Among shiny stars, my beloved sight,
Endearing as ever to gratified eyes.
You are my smile, my forever pride,
On journey of life, you are my guide,
You’re my treasure, you’re my rock,
In your footsteps, I endeavor to walk.
Oh! when I ached, how you too cried,
An affectionate presence by my side
Cheering every feat since I was a child,
With my happiness how you too smiled.
In tenebrous times, you were our light,
When we encountered stormy shore,
In face of danger you were the knight
While enduring gusty seasons of yore.
You tutored me on right from wrong,
Those blessings of verity I pass along
As your love brightens arc of my dawn
On halo eternal, though you are gone.
In albums of past my memories revive,
Cherish and thrive, as if you are alive,
For undying is love so angelic and true,
Rekindling bond anew, thinking of you.
May 3, 2022
Placed 1st: A Mother’s Love, Tributes Of Love
For Mother’s Day Poetry Contest
Sponsor: B J Legros Kelley
Velvet fell from the SKY ON a Boston day by the bay
Cotton caressed thy lips gentility so that you might sigh
While you tried to convince me you and I could beg to fly
Suddenly uncertainty and fearfulness drew night but I never knew why
Other people opined they were warm yet I was cold
I longed to see my arms open wide for you to thusly hold
The woman who tutored ancient men how to produce gold
No statue crafted of such solemnity to behold
To heartbeats beat as one neither ever to cry
Hand in had that old man called us lovebirds flying high
And you with gold shimmering in the wind with which you vie
When the moon that night told you to tell me goodbye
The darkened sky stared right at me
And whatever it asked I would cauIdally comply
They ordered me a way, take to the run and flee
And never even knew fu****g why
(c) 2011...Phreepoetree ~free cee!~
Dear freinds, poetry soupers!
So sorry I've not been around lately for I have a message to the world, THE GIFT! I now am presenting a TV show called Mind, Body and Sol here in Spain. I have also started my second book, my poems will be posted! love you all!!!!
THE GIFT is the answer of a bright new dawn
The law of attraction in poetry form
These poems guide you to a life of success
They are simple instructions, one can easily digest
I live by the law and my life is so sweet
I would love to share this inspirational treat
What I think about I bring about, It's incredibly true
It's all in the THE GIFT about dreams that come true
We all need hope, and now is the time
The key to success, a changing of minds
When you take this on trust, what you are about to read
It will show you how, in life to succeed.
The theory has been around for thousands of years
But been kept a secret, so it appears
Now it’s out, of this there is no doubt
I would like to tell you what it’s all about.
What you are thinking, and how you feel
Is creating your future, It's called the law of attraction
And on this subject, I have been very well tutored
Life seems to be full of highs and lows
We all need a shield for the knocks and the blows
Controlled thoughts, and controlled feelings
Will grant you your wishes, and all you are dreaming.
Nothing comes easy, like learning to drive
But when you have mastered it well, your spirits alive
Nothing can stop you; you're well on your way
Confidence takes over, it’s a brighter day
The same on this subject, in which that I write
For when you have mastered the concept
Your goals are in sight, you become what you think about
Sounds crazy but true, It's all in the poems
Written solely for you.
Read the rhymes, over and over
THE GIFT will be your 4 leaf clover
We all have the power, we all can succeed
Enjoy the poems
TAKE IN WHAT YOU READ!!!!!!!!
Thegiftifonlyyouknew.com
,
Standing at The Mountain
There stood the great mountain—
A Sisyphean challenge;
A Job’s journey;
A deferred dream’s destiny;
Indeed, a Draconian feat.
But there also stood the dreaming King;
Tutored prodigy of the King of Kings;
With eyes stayed on the prize,
He smiled at death with God sent eyes.
Yes, the King is dead
But we’re looking ahead!
We are the dream’s vision;
Our children—its reality;
Jacob’s ladder rises before us;
Let’s get to climbing!
“Only the dreamer dies…”
Many a poet I know a fool
acting like they know-it-all
many a poet I know a tool
acting like "Mr Poet-all"
unknowingly showing me
their knowledge of poetry
has boundaries surrounding
ideas rebounding around
their impounded grounds
only seeing the same repeatedly
nothing new unfortunately
forever under lock and key
belittling anything new they see.
As a poet I'm not especially traditional
more so "special" writing additional
my raw and new to poetry style
unlike those into poetry awhile
so can I now pick the thoughts
of a traditional poet know-it-all
I believe to be caught in restriction walls
appearing to parrot what taught in schools
see if I perceive conviction in their cause
or robotic perspective their memory stores
too Inspect credentials for signs set in stone
content or unambitious toward the unknown
should I see respect or a moody moan
for new styles outside their own zone
Seemingly their priority is to teach all to try to be
writing unoriginally prevent the mind think free
in a strictly stricken view I see crippling you
never trying new or seeking something else to do
you have regulations on how creativity is written
preventing inspiration thus so negatively driven
speculating with unchallenged repetition
as though been tutored to a limit
you're now failing to ascend merited
having starved all but within it.
So please respect my detected inclination at play
but poetry is a creative artform not set in its ways
and those paved paths you pace and wear thin
were once unpaved before their now adored placing
so shouldn't a creative artform progress and not stay there
wouldn't it go on new quests paving unpaved or
invent realise and find in amaze ways new spaces
not be assigned a confined station like railways
instead seek to new roads or train to fly the skies
cus a closed off mind concealed in a cocoon
denies the butterfly wings the room
like a inverted narrow mind blinds clues
let's preserve and branch from the lay of the track
if poetry stays then poetry slacks but if adapts
poetry won't wear weak crumble and crack
recycling the same will only sink in to the black
I don't want to conform to the common or normal
because I see it as a creative short fall.
So why refuse new styles when you could embrace all poetry?
are you a poet or are you a phoney?
College none,
Highs school drop out indeed.
English I am still learning.
Tutored not in the writing.
Asked,
"How?"
Given life from Above,
Heart to live & breathe,
Seeking beyond me.
Author He is,
Entrusted me with the pen,
With Lovely Words of Faith,
"Now do something with all of these."
"Taking away my cell phone would be as painful as being neutered."
~ by poet
Twenty years ago, no one would have predicted
that to cell phones, the world would become addicted.
We text instead of calling, though we have the choice.
I barely remember the sound of my child's voice!
Often, I forget where I've left my darn phone.
Without a text notification, I feel very much alone.
It's part of my anatomy that I should have neutered,
a simple surgical procedure that should be tutored.
Remove it from my hand with a scapel or a knife.
Can I survive without it? It's instrumental to my life!
Cutting it off would be an act of painful castration.
Maybe a lobotomy instead of neutering amputation?
I won't promise that if it's done, it would be a cure.
If it's no longer attached to me, how will I endure
not being able to keep in touch with my best friend,
and how long does it take for neutered scars to mend?
In those days, when we feared the truth
not for ignorance of it within ourselves
but for the dangers posed by speaking aloud
against the prejudices of masses too well-tutored
in lies and hatred, we kept our secrets
and hid among the crowds, assuming
their rabid colorations, spewing the same
evil venom, spreading all the same lies,
pretending that the past was better
than the present, that regression
to our yesterdays, the years gone by,
could create for us, anew,
that Eden we all lost, that sanctuary
from our knowledge of the world, of evil;
and, our regained ignorance
would restore the bliss we lost
with our innocence. That, the biggest lie,
feeds our growing xenophobia --
hastens humanity's ultimate demise.
Time does not flow backwards in this universe;
and there is no "us versus them" --
we are all crowded here together
on this fragile planet, all in this together.
We must be kind, and love one another, or die.
Incineration of Love God Madan (Cupid) 16
Originally written in Hindi by my late father Dr. Amar Nath Kapoor
1899 to 1994. The work was written in Hindi somewhere around 1965-70.
Editing and English version by Ravindra K Kapoor.
Hindi Title ‘Madan Dahan’
Born out of delusion,
And brought up by illusion,
Tutored by evil treachery,
This devil is indecorous.
He would surely destroy,
All pretty creations of God,
If he is saved from the stroke,
Of penance at this moment.
He was living in human form,
As intoxicated sinner of Earth,
Ego had degraded him,
And death brought him nearer.
Ravindra
Kanpur India 7th May 2012.
To continue…..
Protected under the copy write provisions of Poetry Soup as per US laws.
Clarifications:
Ideal instructor, shows integrity, impact in instruction.
5/2/2022
* Deuteronomy 32:2
May my teaching drop as the rain, my speech distill as the dew, like gentle rain upon the tender grass, and like showers upon the herb.
Work Perspective Monoku Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Beata Agustin
National Teacher Day is observed on the first Tuesday of the first full week of May (May 3) and we’re more than ready to show our appreciation to those who have taught us. Everyone has had that favorite teacher that has helped inspire them. This day meant to honor them was actually made by a teacher. None other than First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt herself. Eleanor Roosevelt was more than Franklin D. Roosevelt’s wife, she has a history of civic duty and was an advocate for fellow teachers. Her love for education began at a young age when she was privately tutored and encouraged by her aunt Anna “Barnie” Roosevelt. No matter how high she rose on the social ladder, she never forgot where she came from.
Villanelle: Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Words which sound to native English speakers as gibberish
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
The poet hears a voice probably his own loud and clear
As he scribbles words English dictionaries list and cherish
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Can the fine feel of a language’s rhythms and cadences cohere
In the non-native speaker’s bookish learning albeit feverish
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
When a Malaysian-Chinese poet whispers into his dear’s ear
Lines he has learned for exams from native speakers of English
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Post-colonial poets simulate voices buried in psyche’s rear
Words they utter in tutored voices under authority of the English
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
To whom does this poem belong if it stirs not far from here
The voices that bred these words all swirling around dervish
Whose voice does the non-native English poet verily hear
Does received pronunciation yoke the borrowed voices’ ear
© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2014
"Spring Rain" she was named by her father Chief Many Horses.
Through her veins the hot blood of the majestic Comanche courses!
The young maiden crushed the hearts of many dashing braves,
But to be free to chase the vagabond winds is all she ever craves!
Her father willed her a handsome colt when she was but a little girl.
She named him "Big Thunder" - his coat was akin to that of a pearl!
Her raven hair streamed behind her as she clasped "Big Thunder's" mane!
Ah! Sweet communion with Mother Earth as they raced across the plain!
She preferred the buffalo hunt or spearing fish from tranquil shores,
To tanning hides, preparing pemmican and other such mundane chores!
Her father tutored the budding princess to assume the role of Chief.
She ever looked beyond the horizon to bring her people needed relief!
She fought in many battles and counted coup much to the Chief's chagrin.
She could be heard shouting the "Comanche Yell" above the battles' din!
Her battle cry was ever, "Great White Father, leave my people be!
It is our land the Great Spirit has given us! We just want to live free"
Alas, Chief Many Horses was killed in battle and she assumed his role.
To smoke the peace pipe and make a better life for the tribe was her goal.
Sadly, the Comanche won many battles but eventually lost the war,
But Spring Rain, the only female Chief, will be remembered forever more!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 5 inConstance's "Rain, The Story" Contest - January 2011
As you flee behind you hear
Your hate filled screaming foes
Pillaging and burning
Their tutored hatred beyond reason
For no reason
Loudspeakers hastily erected amongst the rubble
Play a dirge of victory
As they hold a pyrrhic parade
As you flee to who knows where
North, south, east or west?
Don't know. Don't care
Just away
Unknown lands ahead
There be monsters?
You only hope you've left them behind
As you flee you see the broken crowds
A caravan of the barely living
Some men and children in uniforms
Now just costumes
Clutch their weapons that failed them
The debris of war litter the poisoned earth
Twisted metal entomb twisted flesh
Broken souls pass by
Your town is gone
Your home is gone
Your family - alive or dead - gone
Your life - your past - gone
Your food - the last scrap - gone
Your water - the last drop - gone
Your hope - gone
You have nothing
But you are not nothing
As you flee become the seed
That penetrates a fertile land
And makes it grow afresh
You may fall on stony ground
As many will
As you flee you reach the well meaning camps
A pale shade of existence
Living in forgotten limbo
As you flee strike out to promised lands
Schizophrenic peoples that both welcome and revile
As you join their underclass
A scapegoat for all their ills
Cast aside your skills, your art, your education
And toil and sweat on the work that no-one wants
And when you finally accept this is your lot
Toil and sweat for your children
Who can never understand your struggle, your journey
But carry the seed of your people
Maybe one day they will return home
And rebuild
Entry to the "travel light" contest
Written 12th January 2017
A Traveller's Anthem
So much in verse, so unlike prose
A marvelous gift to each of those
Who revel in it's glory
Yet here I am, mere mortal man
Inspired by one who's aura can
Compel me to my story
A traveller? Yes, but please refrain
From treating us with that disdain
Usually reserved for others.
A breed apart? Yes I suppose
But don't forget we're also those
Who need and care, like you.
A pensive type? Usually so,
No thoughts distracted as we go
Between our home and......home.
Our home is where we lay our hat
An oft used term, but without that
We'd shrivel up and die.
And yet there's always constant yearning
Of things no book or tutored learning
Could express as much as this:
A settled life, a home from home
That counter-balance for those who roam
The cities, skies and sea.
And so to you my thoughts do wander
As I, alone, sit here and ponder
Of what you did for me.
You made me welcome for your part
You found a place within my heart
And that is where you'll stay.
Although the miles keep us apart
You'll always have part of my heart,
So much of that you've won.
Shakespeare would have failed Naplan,
That was not in his cunning plan,
Yes, his folks would have him tutored,
To make young Billy become more learned,
He would have lost all his homework,
Billy so did not want extra work,
Shakespeare, that teen scallywag,
It was total fun, such a lad.
Now Shakespeare is a wraith,
Why, Billy, Why? Teens sayeth,
As they serially fail literacy tests,
Why not abolish that Billy pest?
Tragic heroes and drama queens,
That's the teens writing essays on such scenes,
While Billy failed in literacy,
Teens do sense such hypocrisy.